


Worldly Wants

by MiscreantAhead



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 08:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21714679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiscreantAhead/pseuds/MiscreantAhead
Summary: Do the rules change when the world is about to end, when there's hardly anything left?
Relationships: Ashen One/Unbreakable Patches, Greirat of the Undead Settlement/Unbreakable Patches
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	1. Irythill Toast

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone read this to begin with when I saw this would be canon compliant, I changed my mind. Canon divergent, no warnings, happy endings. If you must know I have a weak soul, and it is Christmas!! So anyway, this is just Patchrat endgame now. I'll write a Patchen One separately. Still, this is super self-indulgent. I'll flip my lid if anyone even reads it.

He’d stolen the armor to sell it. That went without saying, and he didn’t believe in fate, but now he had it exactly when he needed it. He’d used it to fool someone once before— someone he hadn’t anticipated to be a seasoned giant slayer. It would work again— even if Greirat was probably a lot smarter than that Unkindled treasure-chaser. He couldn’t very well start developing a reputation for saving lives. He was a humble merchant, not a hero.

All these thoughts ran through his head on his way down the stairs, through the graveyard, and to the mouth of the road that lead from the shrine. Irithyll was a few days journey, and maybe that Ashen Asshole had cleared the path to some degree but it was still dangerous. Not that he couldn’t handle it, but time was of some essence.

He wasn’t going to stop Greirat from doing what he did best, but someone had to look after him. The old man wasn’t careful enough, not by a long shot, and it wasn’t like Patches had anything better to do.

His experience with poison swamps, rats, giant skeletons, wheeley skeletons, etcetera, was extensive enough. He fought when he had to, but his main focus was slipping through quickly.

He knew that unkindled ash was still poking around Irithyll, scouring every corner for something shiny instead of focusing on saving the world or whatever he was good for. Greirat was a might craftier. Where the ashen one was broken architecture and bodies strewn about walkways, Greirat was a fly on the wall. If Patches didn’t know him as well as he did, he never would have been able to find him. But he knew what to look for. Stone walls with vines loose from pulling, footsteps in snow in impractical places with abrupt ends near walls or cliffs. On top of that, it went without saying that he’d be heading for the castle. But there were a hundred ways to get inside.

Based on an inconspicuously placed body that had small knife woulds rather than having been cleaved in half, he was heading for the sewers. Patches needed to catch up, and that was where the bulky onion armor came in handy. Instead of taking the stairs he donned the round helmet and tucked and rolled over a cliffside into the ravine. Not exactly that silver cat ring he’d wanted to snatch off the ashen one’s finger, but a quick shot of estus and he was right as rain. 

He’d landed in the shallows, and the waterways themselves looked clear. But a few steps, and his head jerked to face the direction of a sound that was like metal clanking against stone, followed by a familiar shriek. Not the shriek of anything human, but something he was familiar with. He ran toward it, cursing the weight of the armor and how it slowed his pace. He had the strength to fight in it but it wasn’t his style. Quick, light, and cunning was more along the lines of what he went for.

He skidded to a stop in front of the sewer entrance and looked in, immediately beholding the fight. He’d wanted to shout something dumb and heroic upon entering to announce himself as a genuine onion, but he immediately saw there wasn’t time. Greirat had lost his knife, Patches had seen its glint fly through the air and land in the murky water somewhere too far for him to recover in time.

He didn’t hesitate a moment longer. He surged forward through the waste, rolling under the attack of a hairy centipede that announced itself with the same shriek.

He didn’t manage to disguise his voice when he shouted the word “duck!” and dove in, swinging the sword straight down from above his head. Greirat moved aside just in time to avoid the attack from the centipede and dodge the falling sword. In doing so he threw himself as far as he could through the thick near-sludge in the direction his knife had been thrown. Patches looked back to watch him scramble to find it for just a moment, before he turned back to the centipede and swung the sword back up to cleave it in half.

More of them surrounded him in response to the commotion, but him having killed one seemed to demand the rest of their attention. He saw from the corner of his eye that Greirat was able to find his knife. Patches was only ninety-percent certain he could take all of them on his own, so that was a relief.

Greirat had leapt on one of their backs and jammed the knife into its skull almost as soon as he’d found it. Patches figured that was his cue to start picking them off, and started swinging the massive sword about. He hadn’t used a sword in a while, but apparently it’s not a skill you easily forget. Regardless, if a rotten pile of unkindled ash could take these things, so could he.

They were destroyed, in the end, though not without a strain on his heartbeat and breath rate. He stood-in the waste and filth up to his waist with the dead overgrown bugs lying around him. He hated these things especially because they were just like giant bugs with human heads— disgusting. Worse, he was just starting to notice how badly it smelled in there. He almost commented on it aloud to himself before he heard the water stir behind him and remembered he was supposed to be in disguise.

“I'm lucky you came along,” Greirat’s voice caused him to stiffen, and he didn’t turn at first. “A knight of Catarina, by your armor,” he addressed.

Patches turned swiftly to maintain the persona.

“Siegward of Catarina to be precise!” he introduced.

“I see. I am Greirat, of the Undead Settlement, and I seem to be in your debt…”

“Not at all!” Patches needed to squash that mindset. He had, after all, come here in part for the sake of repaying his own debt. “As long as a smart, worldly fellow such as yourself could point me in the direction of Irithyll Dungeon?”

Greirat laughed gently in response, appearing still a little on edge but further toward relaxing, perhaps in part due to the amusement.

“It’s not far,” Greirat said. “Since you’ve cleared my way into the castle, I’ll lead you.”

“Splendid! With my sense of direction failing me, I’d have been in quite the pickle if it hadn’t been for you!”

Greirat laughed again, and Patches smiled behind his helmet.

“This way,” Greirat directed, waving him along. He began leading Patches out of the sewers the way they’d come in.

“Jolly good! Perhaps before we part ways, you and I should share a toast!” Patches went on, thinking he might be going a little overboard, but he was having a little too much fun.

“I think I should be able to make time for that,” Greirat agreed, a smile in his voice, personable as always despite all his prison time and shady slinking about. Patches followed him out, thinking he should say something, go on about valor and victory maybe. Siegward of Catarina wasn’t exactly known for his silence unless he was sleeping.

As Patches was already well aware, the path to Irithyll Dungeon was only a quarter of a mile west of the sewer outlet. Greirat lead him quickly and quietly as he did all things, right up to the great stone hall that would have lead down into it. Patches was glad he wasn’t actually going in. Nasty stuff down there.

“Here we are,” Greirat introduced, then released a short sigh that sounded if it housed some exhaustion. He then lowered himself onto the ground, crouching in a way that allowed him to be able to spring into action if necessary.

“How about that toast?” He suggested.

“Absolutely, my good man!” Patches sat cross-legged beside him, pulling out some of the siegbrau Siegward of Catarina had shared wit him before Patches had stripped him of his armor in his sleep and then thrown him down a well.

He filled Greirat’s leather pouch as he held it out. He then raised his own and spoke. “To you, and your invaluable assistance! And to our victory against those vile fiends!”

Greirat hummed in what sounded like amused agreement and met the toast.

“To us,” Greirat said, and Patches paused as that sent a pleasant sort of shiver down his spine.

“To us,” he murmured, and lifted his helmet just enough to reveal his lips to drink. Greirat lifted the hood over his head as well, and Patches couldn’t help watching. He’d wondered for a while if it was still sewn on or if he was wearing it voluntarily at this point. He’d had it on before being thrown into Lothric’s cell, which meant it wasn’t the first time he’d been caught.

Clearly this confirmed it was removable, but Patches could see the scarring all around his neck. Despite the fact that he wasn’t in disguise like Patches was, he didn’t remove it completely.

Patches wanted to ask a hundred questions about it, about him. Watching him hold the mouth of the pouch to his lips and tilt his head back, he ended up staring and forgot to drink.

But, none of the questions he wanted to ask made sense for a silly onion knight to ask, and he needed to move on now anyway to avoid blowing his cover.

“I needed that,” Greirat said, and Patches caught sight of a smile before Greirat pulled his hood back down.

“I as well, my friend. Now, certainly, we both have our duties to attend. But first, for me, a nap. The only thing to do after a nice toast.”

Greirat stood up. “Sleep well,” he said. Patches watched him subtly. He wanted to say something more. Good luck, by your valor, _be careful…_

… but instead he lulled his head and feigned a snore. he heard Greirat’s gentle, muffled laugh one last time and then footsteps moving away. Patches didn’t move until the sounds of bare feet on stone were long gone. Then he raised his head, glancing toward the path back toward Irithyll.

He didn’t leave the city until Greirat did.


	2. Woes of Merchantry

"You said 3500 and 4500 last time,” that unkindled ash and his blunt tone was starting to get on Patches’s nerves. He had the souls in these parts, though, and a guy’s got to eat.

“Yeah, well, I’ve reevaluated their worth,” Patches explained. “Turns out, that armor’s more useful than I thought,” and Patches wasn’t about to let his go-to disguise for thief-rescuing go so easily. “It’s not your color anyway,” he mumbled.

“It’s not for me. It’s for its rightful owner.”

“Really?” Patches snorted, genuinely annoyed but still feigning surprise in his tone. “What do you need him for? Can’t be too smart, leaving his armor lying around for me to find. I thought it’d been abandoned.”

Right,” was all the ash said. He wasn’t buying it, but Patches didn’t care. The revered oh-so-special Unkindled One had spared him twice now, despite Patches’s attempts to off and rob him. Figures that I guy like that can’t resist holding onto anyone of use. Blinded by greed even at his own expense. He’d do well not to walk near any ledges at Firelink, even with that silver cat ring always attached to his finger.

“Here,” the unkindled ash handed him the full 30,000 after some moments of brooding. Patches grinned widely, and presented him the Catarina set on a display iron.

“Thanks, good compeer,” he said, pleased at the gain. He wondered if he could have charged more— how much was that onion knight’s life and wellfair worth to this man? At least thirty-thousand souls was the only surefire answer thus far.

The ashen one was walking away, and Patches had turned his attention to a pouch of various rings he’d found in Irithyll while trailing Greirat. He almost jumped when a voice sounded from only a few feet away. He’d apparently stopped.

“By the way,” he looked back over his shoulder. “Greirat mentioned he was rescued by what he described as a peculiar onion knight. Know anything about that?”

“Really?” Patches tossed the rings aside. “He’s still with us, then? Glad to hear it. If he does croak, I’m hoping it’ll be within my reach.”

Cryptically enough, the man walked away without another word.

o-o-o-o-o

Patches couldn’t have said why he’d chosen the furthest corner of the shrine to set up shop from the only person in it that had any meaning to him. Luckily, no one was likely to ask. Still, it had taken him a day or so just to find out that Greirat had left the shrine the last time he'd nearly gotten himself killed. So lately, he’d made a point to wander down to the lower levels of the shrine and glance idly in the thief’s direction to make sure he wasn’t off getting himself into trouble again.

Sure, he could just ask for the head’s up. He and Greirat had had more than one conversation in the past. He wasn’t a stalker— not of anyone he liked, sometimes of people he wanted dead. But sincerity wasn’t in his vocabulary these days, and he didn’t know what he’d say to Greirat in idle conversation if he had a chance to. Something stupid, probably, so why bother?

He was nothing if not a sneak, so he usually was able to spare a glance during an idle visit to Andre. He’d usually stroll up and ask Andre stupid questions in a low voice, and Andre would grumble out answers. Andre didn’t like him very much and, that hadn’t started at Firelink. But most people didn’t.

Once, though, Patches happened to glance over at Greirat while Greirat was already looking in his direction. Patches froze, nearly jumped backwards because that damn thrall hood always looked like it was staring you down. Then Greirat raised his hand and gave him a little wave. Patches would’ve been remiss not to wave back, so he did, but then his face grew hot and he immediately regretted it.

Andre cleared his throat and Patches realized he’d been standing there trying to stop his face from turning too red for over a minute since they’d exchanged pleasantries. Patches merely turned and walked away without a word, back to his secluded shop corner.

The Ashen One was just walking down the aisle as well, and Patches made a point to bump their shoulders together roughly as he walked by.

“Sorry, friend!” Patches spun, waving as he received a not-amused look from an incredibly battered and bruised hero of the shrine. “Lot on my mind today,” he then continued on, waving to the Fire Keeper. She watched him go by with a frown on her face. None of that Ashen One’s biggest fans liked him much.

He got back to his stores, and since Greirat was safe where he belonged, he decided it was time for a nap.

It was only a few hours later, after he’d woken up and was crushing cockroaches that were trying to get into his supply, that he was addressed by a customer he’d never had before. When everyone was dead or hollow and everything out there was ripe for the taking, it was impractical for merchants to buy from other merchants.

But here was Greirat, looking apprehensive, but very much present.

“Oh, hello,” he addressed, sounding confused because he was, and maybe a tad nervous, which was an irritating thing to feel. “What brings you to my end of the market? Here to ask me to divulge the secrets of my professional merchantry?”

“Not quite, just a request,” Greirat spoke softly, “Just on the lookout for a particular item, something to satisfy a craving.”

“A craving, you say? Well then, I can see what we’ve got,” Patches turned to his store of food items— which was limited and the last time someone had asked for anything edible he’d rudely told them this wasn’t that kind of store and then to get lost. But now he was scratching the back of his head and wishing he stocked more on that front.

“I’m looking for siegbrau,” Greirat said, and Patches froze. It was in an unmarked closed pouch, but it was directly in front of him. “It’s rare in these parts, I know, but I was hoping…” he trailed off. Patches took a moment to respond.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve never had the pleasure of drinking let alone selling any siegbrau,” he said, because he was starting to feel like this was a test.

“Really? The Fire Keeper said she’d overheard Merek purchase some from you earlier today.”

That damn blind woman and her super-hearing.

“Merek?” Patches tapped his chin, and started to speak. “That Unkindled Ash? He’s lying. What’s he trying to pull? Tell you what! I’ll talk to him. He’s a friend, so we’ll get it sorted out. Sorry to have gotten your hopes up.”

“That’s a shame,” Greirat said with some dejection, and Patches’s rant deflated. “I was willing to offer a pretty penny after all those Dragonslayer Greatarrows I just sold.”

“Quite a shame, deepest apologies,” Patches thought Greirat should have known him better than to trying to tempt him with profit. But that just meant Greirat probably knew he had it. He probably knew everything. But Patches was a professional at playing dumb, so he’d might as well use the skill.

“Well then, I hope your good business continues,” Greirat waved to him, and then sauntered back toward the stairs.

Patches looked after him, not knowing why he felt so exhausted.

o-o-o-o

“Hey, Patches.”

Patches nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of his own name from behind him. He’d just come back from leading a wagonload of probably-clerics into a hoard of Ghru and was organizing his haul.

“Heavens! You scared the piss out of me!” Patches snapped without much thought and plenty of disdain. “Nearly had a heart attack,” he turned slowly to face the Ashen One, despite not really being in the mood for him. “How can I help you?”

The first thing he noticed when he turned was that Mr. Unkindled looked different than he had since Patches met him in the Cathedral of the Deep. He’d either healed the hollowing he’d taken on to cheat his way to more strength, or was sporting a purging stone. He wasn’t wearing the usual raggedy hood either, and Patches could see that he was wearing a small, amused grin. As if he were just positively tickled about having nearly scared poor Patches to death. It made Patches scoff— the man’s face had always been covered aside from his eyes. Until now, Patches didn’t know he had emotions.

“I heard you have an extra horsehoof ring,” he inquired, casually, and wiped the rotten smile off his face.

Patches didn’t know what use he may have had for it, but the guy was nothing if not a collector of material items.

“Five-hundred,” Patches stated, and reached out to snatch up the ring from its display. He made the simple exchange, and was about to spout off one of his cheesy customer service lines—

“I saw you leave a mug of something with Greirat’s things. That was nice of you.”

Patches was losing his patience for these games. He could bullshit with the best of them, but his temper was short.

“Where did you get siegbrau, if you don’t mind me asking?” he had that knowing mockery in his tone and Patches was so far from in the mood. He snatched up his spear near its head and spun, arching it up and then down toward its target. He wasn’t surprised when it was deflected easily by a massive black blade. Apparently, his Holy Ashiness had been killing black knights in his free time.

“Mind your own business,” Patches said fiercely once he’d shoved the intruder back, then panicked when the same black sword was coming back around. He raised the spear to block it, bracing both hands for impact but still ended up slammed up against his shelves of firebombs and moss balls, his own spear nearly pressed against his throat under the blade's pressure.

“Why are you attacking me!?” He sputtered out amidst panicked breaths. “What have I done?”

Merek’s face was only an inch or so away and Paches was only moments from actually fighting back. If this was how it had to end, so be it—

Then he backed off, shoving off him so the shelf shook and a good portion of the firebombs rolled off. He was lucky none of them detonated.

“If you’re on the brink of losing your mind, you should warn your friends,” Patches said, breathing heavily and jerking away from the shelf, holding the spear pointed downward at his side.

“You attacked me,” Merek reminded, calmly and plainly. He sheathed the sword on his back.

“Well I didn’t mean anything by it!” Patches wished the spear had gone straight through this jackass’s eye.

“You should talk to him,” the meddling bastard had the nerve to keep going on about it. Patches glared daggers at him. “He’s talked about you.”

Patches flinched, but his eyes stayed narrow if only for the sake of hiding the change in his state of mind. He shouldn’t have wanted to know more so badly. He turned away, shaking his head.

“I’ll be sure to take that advice under consideration,” he said, voice not carrying the usual, up-beat tone he took when he was obligingly full of shit. “If you’re not buying anything else… don’t you have work to do?”

He didn’t hear another word, nor did he hear any footsteps. When he looked back, no one was there anymore. It seemed now he’d gotten his greedy paws on a spook spell, too. Patches suspected he had Orbeck of Vinheim to blame for that.

Maybe Patches was on thin ice with someone who could probably best him in a fight and who he couldn’t seem to remove through trickery no matter how many times he fell for it. But he was nothing if not a survivor.

“Talk to him?” Patches mumbled, “What about?” He nudged one of the fallen firebombs with his foot and sighed.

He was getting too old. No worldly wants, but was a soul explicitly worldly? Not a soul he wanted for himself, but one he simply wanted to be close to. After countless years he was finally faced with something new. Old dog, new trick.

Maybe the world really was ending, and maybe that meant it had no use for him anymore.


	3. First Date - Undead Settlement

Patches landed in a crouch with a splash, Yuria regarding him quietly as he stood up straight. He glanced aside at a pilgrim's dead body, and chose not to question it. If Ash-boy wanted to mess with, or ally with, or _whatever_ with the Londor hollows, that was his circus-- Patches didn't need any part in it. He strolled past Yuria without a word, and she didn't speak either.

Greirat looked restless as Patches cautiously approached. He gave the impression of fretting about his wares but they were all pristinely organized. Patches watched as he kept crouching, then standing, planting his hands on his hips and nodding with approval. Then he'd crouch down again and adjust something ever so slightly before standing up and once again observing his layout.

He had a lot of merchandise. Most of the time he did, he was a great thief after all, despite being a concerningly average fighter. Patches knew who he was. He knew where his prizes ended up and why he was so thin despite his prospects always being quite plenty. Greirat could stand head to head with the most powerful in Lothric when it came to wits, mental strength, and sheer determination. But he had too much compassion, too much selflessness, to climb quite as high as they could. As far as Patches was concerned, he was, of course, bigger than all of them.

It was obvious Greirat was restless, and wanted to be scavenging, not pretending to organize. He was quite the bundle of energy for his age, and watching him be himself made it harder for Patches to speak up. Words of greeting got stuck on his tongue and he almost choked on them. They were friends, sure, but not like Patches and Merek, or like Patches and anyone else ever.

He took a deep breath to get his shit together, because he wasn't about to turn tail and try and climb up the wall right in front of Yuria. He had to pass Greirat's line of sight to flee. No escaping it now.

"Not bad," he said after clearing his throat. "A little cluttered, but you can really see the effort." Greirat was technically his business competition, so Patches might as well act like it.

Greirat laughed, and Patches loved the sound. He laughed a lot, laughed off sad things he said, awkward uncertain laughs after jokes, but his genuine laugh's made Patches's heart swim. Patches wasn't sure he himself knew how to make a sound like that anymore.

"Did you finally come to rob me?" Greirat asked.

"As if I'd ever do such a wretched thing to anyone," Patches rattled off and he received another gentle laugh in response. "I'm, uh..." he started choking on his words again, "...I'm going on a supply run. Need more gunpowder and twine for firebombs. Since there's safety in numbers, I was thinking--"

"I'll come along," Greirat responded, "Doesn't have the same excitement as swiping riches and narrowly avoiding blades, but it's certainly better than waiting around here. I swear I could go hollow and then mad all in the same sixty seconds just from boredom in this place."

Patches didn't like the sound of that, but hadn't expected such quick compliance either way. He'd never cared if he was liked, it was good enough for him at any given moment if he wasn't being attacked, and he walked the line well. He liked Greirat, and he'd never thought to care if Greirat liked him back because he was Unbreakable Patches, and that wasn't in his job description. However, that was the first moment in which Patches started to wonder if he did, and hope quickly followed. It was heavy in his chest, and made it hard to breath.

This was going to be messier than he thought.

o-o-o

The Undead Settlement was full of gunpowder stashes, stored by residents who'd since gone made. Patches would never have suggested it-- he didn't want Greirat to have to relive anything. But Greirat had quite casually insisted, said there was no better place for their quest. So Patches had followed.

Patches hadn't been there since Greirat left and it had gone to hell shortly after. A better man who cared about Greirat may have helped protect it, and that better man likely would have died, too. These days no one worth there inventory died there and anyone who made it through was likely to find more exciting things on future paths. Patches wasn't a scavenger, after all, he was a grave robber. He didn't typically _make_ firebombs so much as steal them, despite the misleading mission he'd asked Greirat on.

The settlement had its dangers. Nothing compared to Irythill, but not exactly a cake walk, like anywhere else outside the shrine. They searched the small clusters of houses separately, but Patches never stayed unaware of exactly where Greirat was for long.

"You're quiet," Greirat said as they walked down a path toward the next village.

"What?" Patches almost jumped, and then looked at Greirat with a confused blink. He'd rarely been accused of being that.

"Most days I can hear you from across the shrine, talking the Unkindled One's ear off, or that of anyone else who stops in to buy," Greirat said, and Patches easily took it as not accusing or seeming to imply it interrupted his rest, but just as if stating an observation.

"I'm more personable when I'm trying to make a sale," Patches said- and that went for no matter what he was selling- wares _or_ bullshit.

"Maybe it's because I've never purchased from you, then, that I've known you this long and we've never had a real conversation," Greirat went on.

"Nonsense," Patches objected, "Just the other day, we--"

"Had a nice toast?" Greirat interrupted.

Patches grew quiet.

"What were you doing in Irithyll?" Greirat asked, still just asking, no interrogative or accusatory tone. "And why the disguise?"

Patches felt on edge and put on the spot despite the patience in Greirat's tone. He couldn't lie about this, and he didn't want to. He didn't speak for the same reason he'd already said so little on this trip. He had a hard time remembering how to be honest.

They were in the process of stepping into a cave underneath a cliffside when Greirat stopped. He stood up and stretched, then he took hold of his hood by the frayed tip and pulled it all the way off, sighing and pushing a hand through his hair, back turned. It was black, scruffy or a messy version of curly, but with noticeable streaks of grey.

Patches froze stiff at the sight, choking on his own tongue again despite his mind not having a single word to even try and spit out. He'd never seen Greirat fully unhooded, never seen his face and that still held true, but this was the first time Patches had seen his hair. Patches stared, and thought about how if his hair was straightened it would probably fall just above his shoulders in length. He internally described it as thick, watched Greirat's hands slide through it and wondered if it was soft. Probably not, but he found his mind seeming to force him to imagine it being soft anyway. Then, without turning around Greirat pulled the hood back over his head and secured it with a quick adjustment, and the unruly thoughts ended.

Greirat crouched, then, as if he had a mind to rest. Patches didn't object, and set down his sack next to where Greirat had left his.

"You're peculiar in general," Greirat went on as if it didn't matter in the slightest that Patches hadn't said a word since Greirat asked him a fairly heavy question. "I can't quite put my finger on you," he said, sounding amused by it all.

Patches's felt his heart start to pound at that, pound like he'd gone from a flatline to 90 beats per minute in just a rise in Greirat's tone of voice. The realization slithered from his mind down his neck and spine and spread throughout his body, to the tips of his fingers until he felt incredibly weak. Some treacherous piece in the pits of his dirty soul had taken the words all too literally, and it occurred to him like a foot to the ass that putting his finger on him was exactly what Patches wanted Greirat to do. 

Or, multiple fingers.

The moment of shock turned into moments of internal panic.

"We've all done things we're not proud of," it was a saving grace that Greirat was comfortable just continuing to talk. "You seem like your regrets are few, but like you carry a heavy weight at the same time."

Maybe Patches only seemed like that around Greirat and maybe that weight was just an insufferable crush that had manifested the moment Greirat had heroically leapt off the top of a tower to catch himself on the bars of Patches's tower cell and unlock it, releasing Patches, shoving that cat ring on his finger and telling him to jump down and run. He remembered thinking he must've had two of them, and then he remembered looking up to find his rescuer just looking down at him before he heard the clinking of armor from oncoming guards, and ran on instinct.

A crush he was just now coming to terms with while Greirat, his only real friend, was trying to get deep with him.

"No weight," Patches smiled. "I've just never done anything bad enough to be worth mentioning. Petty stuff, maybe. Nothing there's any reason to hang on." he was trying to make a joke because he knew Greirat knew more of him than most, and the grittier parts of his bad reputation were no secret. But he did have his own reasons for all his choices, and Greirat wasn't wrong about him having few regrets. One was fleeing Lothric that day instead of going back to free Greirat and return the favor.

Greirat's amused laughter came in response and it was clear he understood this was an attempt at humor. Patches wanted to melt.

"Let's rest here," Greirat said, dropping the subject. He then shuffled over to a wall, and leaned against it, one knee propped up with his long arm and gunpowder stained hand resting over it. 

_Fuck._

"Okay," Patches plopped down stiffly. Everything was normal for him. No unwanted epiphanies here.

"I'm so restless in every meaning of the word," Greirat said. "I've been unable to relax, or sleep, for what feels like weeks."

Patches listened.

"Would you mind keeping watch while I rest my eyes for just a few moments? Then we can be on our way."

Patches could have gawked. The last person to trust him enough to take a nap in his presence had been that unfortunate Catarina Onion. But Greirat knew him. Maybe not everything, but he knew what he did-- he had to have known about Siegward, and his attempts to remove Merek. Patches had been trusted by the naive, the unsuspecting, the distracted, and the foolish a thousand times over. But never before by someone who knew him.

_Maybe Greirat was naive or foolish,_ that was the first thought that came to mind. But no. The temptation to do what he did best, what he always did, was nowhere to be found. He'd keep quiet as a mouse, and keep watch, until Greirat found his rest and they could continue on, or head back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading 👀👀Someday they're gonna kiss.


	4. Away with Us

“I’m tired, we should stop to rest.”

“We’re only an hour or so from the shrine, we should continue on.”

“I’m too tired.” Patches stopped in his tracks at the archway that lead away from the bonfire Greirat had chosen to pass by. He wasn’t tired, he just didn’t want to go back to that place yet. Firelink Shrine with its keepers and blacksmiths and everyone else who’d pledged themselves to a cause he imagined few of them could truly explain their claim in. 

Out here, in the wilderness with only mad creatures and hollows and Greirat, things were simple. He’d spent his life punishing men for their greed and Greirat wasn’t guilty. So, when only Greirat was around, if everyone else was far enough away that he could imagine they were the only two left, didn’t that mean Patches himself was also just a man?

“All right,” Greirat’s voice was soft when he looked back at him. “It can’t hurt, can it?” Greirat started to walk back toward the bonfire, passing Patches closely on his way. He smelled like gunpowder from the bombs he’d made under the cliff. Patches’s feet were moving to follow after that smell before he realized he’d commanded them too.

Greirat glanced back at him again just before he sat down, inhaling deeply as he settled down on a small stone bench next to the fire. Patches squatted across from it and started poking around with his finger in the old scattered ash far enough from the flame that it had cooled.

They were silent for a while, and Patches had drawn an angry face in the ash and sand before he really knew what he was doing. He rolled his eyes at his own antics, and looked up to Greirat just to see what he may have been occupied with. He appeared to be looking at Patches’s masterwork of art. He laughed when they made eye-contact.

“Can I admit something to you?” Greirat said only shortly after the laugh. Patches tilted his head with curiosity, far from reticent to any subject of conversation if it meant Greirat would keep talking to him.

“You make me nervous,” he rubbed his hands together in front of him, fidgeting as if saying so also made him nervous. “I’ve heard the rumors, I think everyone has. I keep worrying, when on this journey is he going to try and toss me down a well so he can go back and raid my stores?”

Patches felt his heart sink as he looked back at Greirat, who seemed to be looking right at him from under that hood. If Greirat had been worrying about that this whole time, then of course Patches felt bad about it.

“Part of the reason I went to sleep under the mountain was just to see if you’d take the opportunity because I was tired of wondering when it would happen, but you didn’t,” Greirat admitted.

Patches didn’t know what the hell to say to any of this. If he had thrown Greirat down a well and robbed him blind, he’d know exactly what he’d be saying. _It’s not my fault, I just get these uncontrollable urges, helpless against the temptation..._

Patches stood up, and walked while looking at the ground in front of him, over to the stone bench and sat next to Greirat on it. He could feel Greirat looking at him even though his own eyes were fixed on the fire.

“You make me nervous too,” he finally said, voice low.

“Why?” Greirat asked, sounding more surprised than anything else.

“Because I don’t ever want to do that to you,” Patches glanced at Greirat’s face, but saw nothing but the blank expressionless patchwork hood that gave no clues to his reaction. “I mean, not after what you did for me in Lothric. You’re just not like the others. The rumors… if they’re true, well… then those stories wont happen to you.”

Patches was looking at his hands when he said this.

“Are you sure you know me well enough to be certain of that?” Greirat asked after a moment. Patches was surprised at the question, looked at him with wide eyes and opened his mouth but didn’t know how to explain that he just knew, perhaps just from paying too much attention. In the end he said nothing, but Greirat seemed to take that answer.

“And those other ones that do end up in wells or ditches, are you sure you know them well enough?”

Patches scoffed at that question, and ground out a very self-assured “yes.”

“I’m finding it’s a surprisingly special feeling,” Greirat said, turning his head to look at the fire, “being on the right side of your judgement.”

Patches released a sharp “ha” and couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. He didn’t know how to explain that Greirat may have been the very first to ever truly be on the right side of it. Perhaps it was as much about Patches as it was about Greirat, perhaps years ago Patches would have invented something detestable in him just to justify his own violence. Maybe the end of the world was making him soft, but he didn’t believe there had been or ever would be anyone better to go soft for.

He could see Greirat’s hand on the bench in between them from the corner of his eye. Slowly, he lifted his ring and pinky finger on his own hand that was next to it and slid his hand just an inch over so said pinky was hovering above Greirat’s darker and more calloused fingers. He paused for just a moment, his heart starting to pound harder just before he let the fingers drop to feel Greirat’s knuckles under their tips.

The second he did, Greirat pulled his hand like it was on fire and turned to look at Patches in surprise. Patches couldn’t see the look on his face because of that damn hood again but what he imagined might be behind it made his gut churn. Greirat seemed to stare at him for the longest time, his hand held close to his chest, body leaning away. He didn’t say a word, but every move he made spelled rejection.

“Sorry about that,” Patches sputtered out, “Just stretching out a bit, didn’t mean to startle you…” his heart was pounding, and his one comfort he had plenty of experience making up quick lies. “I’m feeling perfectly rested now, let’s continue.”

Patches snatched up his pack in a second without so much as glancing at Greirat again. He shot up and started toward the archway that framed the road to Firelink, eyes trained on the ground in front of him. His heart had long since sunk into his gut and he felt sick and heavy. What a stupid, stupid thing he’d done— what a stupid thing he’d tried to do.

Patches didn't talk to Greirat until they were back at the shrine. They were behind the thrones of the lords when he finally mustered up the courage. 

"Thanks for coming with me, two's always safer than one," he said. He said it hoping that Greirat might respond normally, hoping a typical friendly chuckle and light-hearted response would set his mind at ease.   
  
But he didn't get it. Instead Greirat regarded him quietly for a few moments from behind that damn hood.   
  
"Anytime," was all he said before adjusting the pack slung over his shoulder, and then started down the stairs toward where he locked up his wares. Patches had a strong urge to follow him, apologize profusely with all the honesty in the world, tell him he hadn't meant to do it, he just couldn't help himself--   
  
\--the churning in his gut was getting worse. He didn't have a single excuse to follow Greirat, because his own stores were in the opposite direction. So he cut his losses, and made his way to his corner of the shrine. His one saving grace was that it was indeed, the furthest corner from Greirat's.   
  
———————————————————— 

Patches knew he'd let his storefront go to hell the past few days, and didn't have an excuse. He hadn't been out gathering supply, he hadn't been so busy with sales that he didn't have time for organization-- not that that would ever happen. He was just here, lounging in his filth.   
  
He was angry at himself for having wanted something different. Having wanted at all-- he understood now, again, why he resisted the pursuit of personal desires or gain as often as possible. It only lead to ruin.   
  
And ruin was what his dusty, messy shelves could be described as. Hawkwood had wandered up that morning and taken one look before spinning around on his heel and walking away again. Patches grumbled something unintelligible at the memory of that deserter's face, something like that he should have stayed home with his family so they could impale each other for eternity. It occurred to him that Hawkwood had probably gone to Greirat after leaving. Thinking about Greirat made him grumble more things, mostly insults directed at himself.   
  
After that he was just very tired. Tired of the shit he sold, of his lot in this shit world, and of his own shit choices and experiences. What he wouldn't have given, for the first time, to just be a different man. Some naive idiot, maybe. Wouldn't it have been nice to tra-la-la through life and have had his brain eaten by a sunlight parasite instead?   
  
"Are you okay?"   
  
Patches was mentally long gone when he heard the voice, head lulled to one-side. He was nearly startled back to the present by it and his neck snapped up too fast to look at the offender, causing a painful strain in it.   
  
"Ouch! Can't you tell when a guy is sleeping?" It was that goddamn unkindled ash again, the last person Patches was in the mood for.   
  
"Your eyes were open," Merek argued, and had Patches had any energy he probably would have started a fight he couldn't win and this time followed through. Who better to put him out of his misery?   
  
"Are you here to buy?" Patches sat up straight but didn't bother standing. Merek didn't speak, just sort of cocked his head quietly, and then suddenly squatted in front of Patches, face frustratingly close, looking at his face. Patches's eyes narrowed.   
  
"You look like shit," Merek was apparently keen on ignoring the extremely relevant question.   
  
"I have my off days, which I'm sure you're familiar with considering you look like shit every day. And smell like it."   
  
"I end up in a lot of swamps and sewers," the serious non-offended explanation was infuriating.   
  
"Anyway, I'm not actually here to analyze your mood swings. I've been gone a while and I'm looking for cracked red eye orbs. I know you don't normally carry them, but--"   
  
Patches grabbed a pouch as soon as the item's name came out and threw it at Merek's chest. Merek's speech was cut off, which was a blessing, and he looked inside the pouch. Patches knew he'd find five cracked orbs inside. He'd pick-pocketed them off Leonhard weeks ago as a joke.   
  
Truthfully, he didn't know Merek was fond of invading and pillaging, but he didn't know why it surprised him.   
  
"Five thousand souls," Patches appraised, and it was more than they'd ever normally sell for but Patches didn't care. Merek always had souls to spare, and sure enough he handed them over without an argument.   
  
"Thanks," was all he said, and started to walk away. Patches was a little surprised at the simplicity. For so long Merek had been sticking his nose into Patches's business-- especially since he'd cured his hollowing-- particularly regarding Greirat. Now he was just walking away without any insight on the matter despite the fact that Patches was drowning. Typical, so fucking typical.   
  
"What did he say?" Patches was shouting after him before he realized it.   
  
"What?" Merek asked.   
  
"Back then, you said Greirat mentioned me," if he wasn't at rock bottom before, he would be now. "What did he say?"   
  
"He asked me if the rumors were true." Merek didn't sound like he was making it up.   
  
"What did you say?"   
  
"I told him they were," Merek shrugged. "That you've repeatedly tried to get me killed, and have definitely done it to countless others..."   
  
Patches scoffed. He wasn't in the mood for putting up his facade. He'd long since broken character with Merek, and was perhaps getting a little tired of playing.   
  
"He looked disappointed," Merek said, "if it helps."   
  
It didn't help.   
  
"Go then," Patches mumbled in response. He stood up, though it took more strength than he thought he had, and turned to face his messy storefront. He sighed to himself, and decided that if he didn’t want to go hollow, he’d better clean it up.

———————————————

The world managed to go back to normal once he’d busied himself with the usual. He’d taken a trip back to the road of sacrifices and happened upon an unsuspecting traveller who he tricked into underestimating a black knight. It was nice to get back into the business— nice that there were still people left in the world, and most of them were rotten.

He didn’t loot the body, though. Partly because the corpse was a bit too close to the black knight for comfort and partly because he just didn’t care to. When he got back to Firelink Shrine he didn’t enter or return to his store, and instead walked the perimeter.

He visited that crow on the roof because he’d gotten the impression she had a fair way about her. She didn’t like him very much at first, had just squawked and repeated no, no and for him to go, go. He’d heard that animals have a sixth sense about people, so it didn’t surprise him. But he left a few moss balls with her like he’d seen the ash do months before, and it only took six of them before she left him something in return. Just a titanite chunk, which he personally had no use for, but he could certainly sell it for next week’s meals.

It was quiet above the shrine, and he started to understand why she built her nest there. Realizing this while trekking aimlessly about the roof was perhaps the first time he felt guilty for possibly intruding. She hadn’t said anything to him in days, though, not since the last time she’d tried to shoo him away. They had quiet exchanges that he liked to think were full of mutual respect, though perhaps lacking fondness on one side.

Most likely the same types of interactions he’d had with Greirat, and had woefully misinterpreted.

He decided to leave her be, and feeling as if he wasn’t welcome anywhere else, made his way up the tower behind the shrine. He wasn’t welcome among the dead, far from it, as he was frequently a grave defiler. But there was a certain comforting familiarity about the unwelcoming feeling, like remembering who he was. And after all, to his own dissatisfaction, these graves had already been defiled by someone else.

“Here you are,” he heard a voice from just a few feet behind him, just outside the gate he presumed. “I was wondering where you’d been for so long.”

Patches was surprised to see Greirat— speaking to him, apparently seeking him out. He couldn’t get a word out when he turned to face him. An explanation on where he’d been seemed redundant and the only other thing he wanted to say was sorry, but it might’ve been a lie.

“I get the feeling we shouldn’t be here,” Greirat said in little more than a whisper.

“I get that feeling in most places,” Patches managed to respond, and followed Greirat back out and across the roof to the other end of the tower. Greirat stopped there, and turned to face him.

“Truthfully, I was worried you’d gone to Lothric Castle,” Greirat explained. “Merek found a way in recently, and when you were away so long, well—,” he stopped, and leaned against the stone wall like he was taking a load off “—it’s good to see you’re well.”

“If I had gone there, I could handle myself,” Patches said assuredly.

“Of that I’ve little doubt, but I suppose just that little is enough to cause discomfort,” Greirat punctuated the admittance with an awkward laugh. Patches’s heart beat faster at the confirmation that Greirat was worried for his safety.

“Can I show you something?” Greirat asked softly, and Patches merely stared at him for a few moments before he nodded just once, and when Greirat turned to leave, he followed.

He followed Greirat from the shrine across the graves to the bottom of the high wall, where they stopped at the edge overlooking the surrounding area of Lothric. Greirat had been silent for most of it, and so Patches had remained silent as well.

Greirat walked to the edge of the wall overlooking the forest, the cathedral, and the village. The wind whipped through his clothes as he leaned into it. Patches looked quietly on as Greirat raised his hand to the top of his hood, wrapped his fingers around it, and pulled it off. He held it at his side and the wind tousled his curly black hair, the hair Patches had thought once or twice about touching. He still hadn't seen Greirat's face, and all he had to do was walk up beside him in order to do so.   
  
"I like looking down on it from here," Greirat said once the wailing wind slowed. "From this high up, when I can't see the bodies, the burning homes, the mad hollows... it brings back the more peaceful memories I had of home."   
  
Patches moved forward cautiously, because Greirat had lead him here so that must've meant he wanted him to play some part in this experience. He still didn't want to intrude, so he walked up beside Greirat while looking out at the village instead of looking at him.   
  
"It's a great view," he offered, and it was a sincere comment. He could see so much of the area surrounding Lothric, as far as the Cathedral of the Deep and as deep as Farron Keep.   
  
"Yes, that too."   
  
Patches could see from the corner of his eye that Greirat was lowering himself down into a resting position. He turned his head without really thinking, and looked directly at him.   
  
"I don't really have anyone to share this with," Greirat said to him, looking up at him, and it was the first time Patches had ever seen his face. He hadn't had any specific expectations, but he certainly hadn't expected anything like the way that smile made his heart pound. He hadn't expected the first word to come to mind would be beautiful.   
  
"With the world heading the way it is... everyone seems to be disappearing, I just..." Greirat looked out at the far-away world again. "Well, I thought maybe I wasn't the only one who could use some time above it all."   
  
Patches looked down again, thinking that he'd spent most of his life in that position. Above it all, passing judgements and dealing out punishments where he could, taking vengeance when the opportunity arose. He wasn't part of the world down there, or any other he'd ever looked down on. He’d always been sat above it all.  
  
He glanced at Greirat, at the smooth skin of his unblemished face, the curve of his undamaged lips and the way his sideburns curled up toward his ears. He looked at the deep, pink scars on his neck and the nicks and scuffs covering his arms and legs. Greirat was just a man, just like all the others. Perhaps until now some part of Patches had been convinced he must've been cut from something else, something better. But none of them were.  
  
After a few moments of silence, Patches sat down next to Greirat, and the silence between them continued, comfortable and contemplative. 

"I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," Greirat spoke after a long while, "I've had a lot on my mind of late."   
  
"Didn't even notice," Patches mumbled, and it was partially true because he'd been avoiding Greirat right back. He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying not to wonder too hard what exactly was weighing so heavily on Greirat's mind.   
  
"Merek said you seemed off and asked if I knew why that might be..."   
  
Patches scoffed, stretching his legs out in front of him just so he could more easily wiggle his toes out of anxiety. He'd sat too close to Greirat those moments ago when he'd chosen to sit. It hadn't seemed that close at first, but now it was as if he could feel the vibration of every breath he took.   
  
"Always meddling, that one," he muttered to try and save himself, "Can't leave well enough alone. Do we even know if he’s the best choice for his little quest? Or did he just come along and decide he needed to play hero like he does with everything else?"   
  
"He said he suspected you had... feelings for me."   
  
Patches went rigid and a little panicked voice in the back of his mind screamed as it demanded an explanation for why that prying busy-bodied ash was still alive.   
  
"Pft, absurd," Patches muttered for lack of anything better to say as his face started to feel damningly hot.   
  
"Do you?" Greirat asked anyway.   
  
Patches couldn't look at him, certain that eye-contact would say more of the truth than even a verbal confirmation were he to utter one. Not to mention the ways in which looking directly at Greirat's gentle face had already pushed him over the edge.   
  
"I'm not sure I fully understand the implications of those words," Patches responded, tone low and plain.

"But yes." He whispered. 

Greirat didn’t immediately respond, and Patches immediately felt a panicked need to continue.

“I am genuinely, dreadfully sorry if that bothers you,” Patches went on, tone much more morose than he’d ever meant it to be. “We can continue avoiding each other if you like, after all it was working so well these past weeks, so—,”

Patches stopped when Greirat’s hand landed on his shoulder and he felt his body go rigid. That one touch shut him up and may as well have ripped out his tongue on top of it. He felt heavy and hot and it was suddenly very hard to breathe. At the same time he felt so tired, so exhausted with himself and with this world, he simply wanted to pass out.

He closed his eyes when Greirat kissed his cheek, tears pricking at the corners of them because for the life of him he did not know what to do with this. This was so far removed from what he was but his soul be damned, he _wanted._

He left himself go when he turned his head and Greirat didn’t make any move to back away when their eyes met. He kissed Greirat’s mouth, full and deep and sincere for the first time in his life and Greirat’s enthusiasm when he kissed back found Patches’s chest pounding wildly.

Greirat didn’t have nearly the strength to push Patches onto his back, but Patches eagerly let him the moment he tried. From there they rolled each other further from the edge to avoid any mishaps, and got lost in each other for as long as their energy allowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told u they were gonna kiSSSSSSS😘😘😘😘😘


End file.
